


The one he can most easily refuse

by Tamburlaine_the_great



Category: This Publican - Dornford Yates, YATES Dornford - Works
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Anti-Semitism, Extra-Marital Sex, F/M, Infidelity, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:14:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24587431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamburlaine_the_great/pseuds/Tamburlaine_the_great
Summary: Rowena Bohun is married, but she’s not going to let that stop her getting what she wants.
Relationships: Rowena Bohun/David Bohun, Rowena Bohun/Octav Leta
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. Rowena

**Author's Note:**

> ‘This Publican’ is maybe not one of Dornford Yates’ better-known works, and it’s all a bit relentless in its portrayal of the disloyal wife. However, I’ve always been intrigued by the character of Leta, Rowena’s lover, and how inconsistent his characterization is in the book. On the one hand he’s an East End Jew, but invited to nice parties where the right crowd congregate, and evidently so memorable that despite only having met him once, David remembers his name, but who is apparently known for his rather lax morals and venality in Rowena’s own set of friends (though, given the anti-semitism on display in the novel this might only be due to typical stereotypes about Jews). So here’s my attempt to flesh out his life and motivations.
> 
> I've made no attempt to write in Yates' style.

She was enjoying herself, partly because most of the people at the party were friends of hers, and not David’s, and it amused her a little to see how very ill-at-ease he was amongst them. She often teased him about his lack of _savoir faire_ , which he took with even less grace, but she thought him more of a snob than he would admit – any folk out of his class were as closed books to him, and he had no idea how to speak to them.

She smiled at her partner as the dance came to an end, and he kissed her hand in a gallant fashion. She looked around for David, but he was not in the room; frowning, she went to the sideboard where the drinks had been placed. A lean, dark man was pouring whisky into a glass with ice in it, and turned as she approached. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

He was dressed in a somewhat bohemian fashion, with a waistcoat of hue and pattern which her husband would have averted his eyes from, and the shoulders of his evening coat looked overly padded. His eyes were opaque and dark, and his hair like shiny black patent leather, the natural curl in it ruthlessly tamed.

“I’ll have a cocktail, please,” she said, meeting that cool black gaze and feeling the strangest sensation.

His brown-skinned hands, with long, clever-looking fingers, busied themselves with bottles and ice and shaker. Not wanting to look at his face, since that felt too intimate, she watched his hands instead, and was startled to realise she was wondering what they might feel like on her skin. More skilled than David’s, she thought: they could hardly be less. He handed her a glass, ceremoniously, and she looked at him as she sipped. It was good, and she raised her eyebrows. “Thank-you.”

It was a handsome face, almost beautiful, with a strong chin and sharp cheekbones, pale olive skin, and it currently bore an expression of some irony. She could not have put her finger on what it was about him, but he was unmistakeably Jewish. He gave her a small bow, and sipped a little of his own drink.

A sense of doing something that her husband would strongly disapprove led her to ask “What’s your name? I don’t think we’ve been introduced. Mine’s Bohun.”

“Leta.”

“What do you do, Mr Leta?”

He smiled, showing excellent white teeth. “I design clothes. You’re dressed by Dourelle, I see – one can always recognise the line. Elegant simplicity.”

She acknowledged that he was right, raising her brows a little.

“It becomes you greatly. It is so rare to find a woman who wears her clothes really well.”

She bowed her thanks for this compliment. There was a noise as the next gramophone was put on.

“May I have this dance, Mrs Bohun?”

“Yes, you may.” He put down his glass and held out his hand. “How did you know I was married?” she asked, putting her hand into his.

“This,” he replied, touching the gold band on her ring finger delicately. “You must not think that the fine emerald you also wear disguises it.”

“I see. How very observant you are, Mr Leta.”

He shrugged, and his other hand touched her shoulder lightly. He was not as tall as her husband, but held himself well, and not at all stiffly. The shoulders were not, after all, overly padded, since she could feel hard muscle beneath her hand, and wondered at it. She found, too, that he was a far better dancer than David, finding the minute gaps in the crowded floor which her husband would never have done, and keeping perfect time. Rowena relaxed in his arms, conscious that she need not think for him.

“Do you play golf, Mr Leta?” she asked, and then suddenly realised that the question was not polite: no Jew of his type would be welcome in any club. Despite herself, she blushed: Rowena was capable of deliberate spitefulness, but rarely accidental malice.

“No, I have never had the opportunity,” he replied, a tone of irony twisting his words a little. “You do, I assume?”

“Indeed, yes. Unfortunately, my husband doesn’t care for the game, so I rarely play nowadays.” There was a pause, as he directed them to a larger gap in the press of couples, and she added, “What is your sport of choice, Mr Leta?”

“I box, and have played tennis. Do you also, or is golf your only recreation?”

“I’m very bad at tennis, so I don’t play,” she admitted.

He smiled more genuinely. “If you don’t play you cannot hope to get better.”

“It’s a little too energetic for my taste.”

“Then what is dancing?”

“Dancing is a pleasure, not a sport.” She paused, and added, “Especially with one who knows how to dance. My husband has other talents.”

“But naturally.”

The dance ended, and they made their bows. He kissed her hand, and her body clenched, so that she almost snatched her fingers from his. His eyes looked into hers, and there was that ironic look again, as if he had recognised her. “Thank-you for the dance,” he said softly. As she moved off, she saw David: saw his glance on them both; saw the momentary disgust as that glance followed Leta’s back as he moved lithely through the throng.

Later, as they were driving home, David said, “Who was that dreadful bounder dancing with you before supper? He looked the filthiest sort of Whitechapel Jew.”

She knew at once that she must not defend him. “I know, darling – absolutely impossible. But I felt I couldn’t refuse – he was a guest of our hosts, after all. He said his name was Leta.”

“ ‘Leta’?” David pronounced, with derision. “You’d better not have anything to do with him, if we see him again.”

“Certainly not. I could have spit in his face. Thank goodness I get all my clothes from Dourelle – to have such a man as that designing for one – ugh, it makes one shudder.”

It did: but not with disgust.

*

Rowena had not intended quite such a violent quarrel with her husband, but she had been unable to bear his incompetence nor his method of dealing with her anger. Her early life had left her disinclined to submit to male authority, and his restraining of her fury had both hurt and caused her some momentary uncertainty, as well as a fresh determination to dominate. A discreet advertisement she came across in the newspaper gave her an idea, a way to smooth the road a little, and the coincidence could not have been more fortuitous, nor indeed fortunate.

Nerve treatments at a well-respected institute in Potter’s Bar would be an admirable disguise for somewhat less reputable pursuits in nearby Melham where, she had discovered, Mr Leta lived. Now, the only difficulty would be finding someone to go in her stead.

It was a few days before she could put into place her plan, but eventually she found an acquaintance for whom the treatments would actually be of some use. She enjoyed feeling beneficient, and pleased to know that she was hoodwinking David and spending his money on someone else. On the first day, she picked up Mrs Nicolson and drove her to the clinic, brushing aside her gratitude, then went on to Leta’s address. His home proved to be a basement flat in a tall brick-built house at the end of a terrace: the bell was neatly inscribed with his name, and she pressed it, surprised to find a sensation of anticipation rushing through her.

Presently, the door opened. There was Mr Leta himself, looking a good deal less exquisite than when she had last seen him: in his shirt sleeves, which were rolled to the elbow, collar undone, no tie, hair rumpled. Rowena felt her body clench with lust.

“What can I do for you, madam?” he asked, politely, but without any welcome.

Good: he did not seem to have recognized her. “May I come in?” What she wanted to say to him could not be said on the doorstep, even if they were largely hidden by the flight of steps which mounted to the front door of the house above.

There was a pause as he scrutinized her, half-insolently, half with professional interest. “Yes, very well.” He stood aside to let her in, and she smelled tobacco and some kind of spice on him as she passed.

She found herself in a comfortable sitting room, furnished sparsely, but simply, and painted an unusual shade of grey which formed a pleasant backdrop to the disorder of books and cloth and sketches, and the kind of modern art on the walls which David would have instantly categorised as no better than a confidence trick. A large worktable sat beneath the window to catch the available light, and it was littered with sketches and scraps of material. A couple of tailor’s forms were draped in silks.

“You caught me in a fit of industry,” he said, not excusing, but explaining the disorder. “Would you like a drink, or a cigarette?”

She explained her request, waited for him to respond, willing him to accept: couldn’t he see the blood raging through her body? “I’ll pay you, of course,” she added.

His expression did not change as he lit a cigarette for himself. “Five pounds,” he said, exhaling smoke, and flicking the spent match into the grate.

She agreed. She would have given three times that – though that might have been more difficult to explain to David, even if he checked her expenditure – to have this man, so unlike her husband, who set her heart beating faster, who made her body react merely to the sight and scent of him.

An hour or so later, Rowena sat for a moment in her car, partly to settle herself, partly to enjoy the sensation of well-being that came with sexual satisfaction. She wondered what her friends would have said if they had seen her: coupling with every sort of abandon with a man not one of them would have hesitated to stigmatize as a filthy Jew. She guessed that her husband, estranged though they were, would barely believe his own eyes. And therein lay safety: if she’d chosen to have an affaire with a man of her own sort (she had long since forgotten her own roots were possibly humbler than Leta’s), it would be found out in no time, and it was no part of her plan to have David divorce _her_. No-one would believe that she’d stoop to Leta.

And yet.

Her instinct had not been at fault. He had not been uncertain nor had he even been tender: he probably didn’t even like her: but he had satisfied her as David had never done, even in the first flush of his enthusiasm.


	2. Leta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Octav Leta finds himself in an interesting situation with a woman who thinks he doesn't know her. But he's more observant than she realises, and that may be a fatal miscalculation for her future plans.

Octav Leta had indeed been born and lived most of his life in Whitechapel, along with, it seemed, every other Eastern European Jew fled from persecution and pogroms who had not gone further west. His maternal uncle had emigrated from Bucharest in 1892, and his mother followed a few years later, aged only fourteen. They both found work in garment factories and the great warehouses of the East End, shared a cramped and rather squalid tenement with another Jewish family, these from Ukraine.

Deborah met and married Isaak Leta in 1909, and Octav was born the following year, to his parents’ joy and pride. Their happiness did not last long: Isaak was killed, knifed in a street brawl the year war broke out, and Deborah thereafter seemed to feel little pleasure in life.

The boy grew up around the garment trade, his uncle having risen by this time to foreman of a big factory, and having aspirations of setting up his own business. The war brought manufacture of uniforms, of haversacks, of tents and tarpaulins, and the young boy learned to judge cloth and use a sewing machine, and repair them, too. Later, he learned how to alter clothes, first for his family – his mother and uncle and aunt and cousins – and then for his uncle’s customers. In his late teens, after he’d given up on school for full-time employment and a man’s contribution to the family budget, his aunt Dinah, worried that his work and interests might not be attractive to any good Jewish girl, suggested he take up boxing as a suitably manly pursuit that might deflect attention from his interest in fashion.

Octav grinned at that, having already in childhood learned to defend himself with fists and feet from the Irish boys across the road who detested Jews on principle, let alone ones who were easy to stigmatise as cissies. But he went along to the boxing club nonetheless, and found himself enjoying the company of the others he found there: it was there, for the first time, that his race, his religion, were not the most important things about him. That because he’d been born in London, and could speak its argot (as well as Yiddish and Romanian) was enough to make him an Englishman to the other denizens of the club.

It was pleasant, though he appreciated the irony in such a realisation, not to be the alien, unwanted, for a change.

In 1930, his uncle, having made a good deal of money, moved out of London at last, much to his wife’s approval. Hertfordshire had been the destination of choice for many Jewish families escaping the city, and in Radlett there was a community already to welcome them. Octav stayed a while longer in the city, and started designing clothes, not just making them from other people’s patterns. Gradually he gained clients and could pay a seamstress.

But then his mother died, and with that the last thread keeping him in London frayed. He kept an office on the Whitechapel Road, near Aldgate, but he too moved to Hertfordshire to be closer to his family – yet not too close.

His moderate success pleased him. He had enough money for his needs, and yet could save for the future; work he enjoyed and which allowed him to indulge his artistic streak; sufficient free time that he could go out from time to time to parties and to dance, or to box occasionally at the club. Despite his aunt’s urging, and that of his eldest cousin, he felt little desire for marriage, though he accepted it would surely come for him in the future.

*

An idea had come to him that morning on waking, and he’d scrambled into clothes as soon as he’d jotted down the bare bones of it on the sketch pad by the bed. He made his own breakfast – coffee, cigarette and toast – ate standing up in the kitchenette, then took himself into his work room. He was working so fluently that when the bell sounded in the late morning, he was almost tempted to ignore it. But then, it might be the kitchen maid from the house upstairs with today’s milk, and while he was prepared to drink black coffee, milkless tea was not to be borne.

He opened his door, and found instead a small, fair-haired, brown-eyed woman there. She had on a green dress by Dourelle, and a fine fox fur. She was familiar, and he cast his mind back to try to remember her. Not one of his customers. “What can I do for you, madam?” he said, politely.

She met his gaze without shyness. “May I come in?”

Her voice was familiar: ah, now he remembered her. He had danced with her once at a party. Bohun was the name. “Yes, very well.” He saw the car parked in the road, almost subconsciously noted the number, which was at eye level. He stood aside and let her in. She went into the work room. “Would you like a drink, or a cigarette?” he asked.

“No thanks.” She let the fur slide off her shoulders, and took off her hat. “I need a little pleasure, some sensual pleasure, since my husband won’t give it to me. I thought you might do so instead.”

Leta paused in the lighting of his cigarette. “You did?” he replied, evenly, not showing the surprise he felt.

“I’ll pay you, of course.”

He lowered his eyes so that she should not see the contempt in them, lit his cigarette before the match flame could burn his fingers and drew on it. _Very well_ , he thought. _What am I worth?_ “Five pounds,” he said. It would cover a fortnight’s rent, and leave enough for the figurine in Honitons’ window that he had been coveting. She probably paid that for her hat.

“Very well.”

She agreed so quickly, so indifferently that he almost wished he’d asked ten, instead. Still, he looked at her again, and saw unmistakeable invitation: he was not inexperienced. He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray on his work table, and went to her, held out his hand; felt her shiver as she touched him. He kissed her throat, which smelled very faintly of some delicate perfume: he did not feel able to kiss her mouth – not yet. Her slight body moved against his, and her hands started unfastening her dress. She was as unashamed about this as any mannequin or showgirl used to undressing in public.

“No need for such haste,” he said, softly. He led her to his bedroom, where the bed was still unmade and dishevelled from his hasty rising. He assisted her with the dress, feeling a professional interest in the construction of her garments, as well as a growing desire for her body. When she was dressed only in her underwear and stockings, she sat down on the bed, then lay back and pulled off her silk knickers. He watched her for a moment, stroked her skin, and knelt down between her slim legs, spreading them widely. Her husband had evidently never done this before, for she said, “What the hell are you – oh God, please don’t stop.”

His mouth otherwise occupied he made no reply; concentrating on her arousal. She moved, and moaned her pleasure, so that he felt his cock stir and then stiffen. Her skin was damp with sweat now, and as he made her more excited, her breaths came more quickly, and shallower. He undressed, swiftly. The brown eyes opened, now almost as black as his with lust, and she moaned again in helpless anticipation as her gaze desperately roved over his body, caught, and moved, and caught again.

“Oh, please,” she said, hoarsely. “You don’t know how much I need this.”

There was a sweaty, panting interval which came to a satisfying conclusion for them both. At last, he stirred, went to the bathroom, then cleaned her and himself. He lit two cigarettes and passed one to her; sat on the bed and watched her recover. He sketched her, idly.

“You have a good body,” he said. “Slim and lithe, and well-shaped.”

She glanced at him. “Well, thanks.” She arched her back like a pleased cat. “Bring my clothes, won’t you?”

Octav grinned wryly to himself, but he fetched her clothes and himself dressed. She opened her purse and gave him a crisp white note without any embarrassment. He glanced at it before folding it away in his pocket book: it was as agreed. He helped her on with her shoes, and she put on her hat and fur before the mirror in the hall. She looked as neat as before, as if she had merely come in for a discussion of modes and styles. He wanted to ask her what she thought she had been doing, but would not give her the satisfaction of curiosity.

“I’ll come again, please,” she said, on the threshold.

“If you like,” he replied indifferently. “Call, next time, though – I’m not always at home. I’m in the book.”

“I know. That’s how I found you,” she said, a little tartly.

He shrugged.

“Good-bye for now.”

“Good-bye.”

She walked swiftly up the steps to her car and he shut the door behind her.

*

She came more often than he had expected, after the third time explaining that she was ostensibly attending a clinic in nearby Potter’s Bar so that her husband would not know. Mentally, he raised his eyebrows at that: several of his clients lived in the vicinity and he knew the Boldre Institute. She would ring him, usually the day before, calling herself Mrs Layton, but he knew that was not really her name: he thought she had no idea that he knew who she really was. He evinced no curiosity about her life, but she gave away more than she realised to a man who was quicker than her husband, and much more cynical.

He grew to enjoy her visits. She was so very enthusiastic, her body slim and athletic, and she learned quickly. But he never forgot that she was paying him for this, and that he was bound to provide what the customer wanted.

*

Leta finished fitting the dress, and Mrs James surveyed her reflection in the mirror. “What do you think?” she asked her sister, who was sitting watching.

Miss Stoneleigh exhaled cigarette smoke. She was younger, and a good deal more stylish than her sister. She scrutinised carefully. “I think it needs to be a tiny bit shorter. You don’t want it trailing on the ground.”

Leta extended his hand to his client so that she could step off the stool to check the truth of Miss Stoneleigh’s comment. “Yes, about half an inch, I think,” she said. She stepped back on the stool and Leta began to unpin the hem.

“So tell me about this Bohun divorce,” Mrs James said. “From what I’ve read in the papers it seems to be quite the scandal.”

Leta listened with more interest. It gave him a good deal of ironic amusement to hear what women said to each other in his presence, almost as though they were unaware of him.

“Terrible,” her sister said, with relish. “That poor woman. She was a saint to have put up with him for so long. Of course, everyone’s saying that Mrs Leighton was only one of many women with whom he’s been carrying on. She’s such a nice lady – I feel so sorry for her. Bohun’s a real cad for putting her through the wringer like this.”

“I think rather better of him for contesting,” Mrs James said, shrewdly, “since it shows he actually has some regard for her reputation. What about the husband?”

“Leighton? Standing by her, apparently.” Miss Stoneleigh stubbed out her cigarette and added, “I’ve not been into court myself, but I’m told Mrs Bohun claimed her husband’s a ‘terribly sensual man’. She couldn’t cope with the demands for marital satisfaction.”

Mrs James laughed wryly. “It might be pleasant to have one’s husband interested in that sort of thing,” she said, “but every woman has her own cross to bear.”

Leta finished the pinning, had it approved, and Mrs James agreed with him that he would have the finished dress delivered the following day.

He left the house, walked to his seamstress’s house, where he handed the dress over to Mrs Bloom to be finished, and went on home. He sat down at his desk to mull over the conversation. He had been very interested. He glanced at the paper, which had some details of the divorce, and grinned to himself. Mrs Bohun had certainly pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes: nearly every printed word breathed outraged sympathy for the wronged wife.

He knew how mistaken they all were.

The progress of the case explained why she hadn’t been to see him for a few weeks. Although he thought Bohun deserved some of the opprobrium – he sounded like a stiff-necked snob, and far less intelligent than his wife. He wondered why she had married him: had it been merely for his position? He certainly didn’t seem to have any other redeeming features – Octav toyed with the idea of writing a letter to Bohun’s solicitors, explaining the situation and offering to extricate him from the mess.

Octav did wonder why she wasn’t afraid that he’d do exactly that, though.

Maybe she thought he wasn’t interested, or that he didn’t know who she really was, or that she could have his testimony disbelieved or disregarded. Because he probably _could_ ruin that shaky edifice of lies she was so carefully constructing in court.

In the end, however, it was something different which kept him quiet: he did not want to prove to anyone that he was the kind of man who would betray a lover, even if she _had_ been paying him for the privilege.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was also partly inspired by ‘Ripper Street’, but none of that show’s characters make an appearance.
> 
> I hope Dornford Yates would hate this.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the anti-Semitic language, which is taken from the source.


End file.
